Lilith's Embrace
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Whispers had reached his ears from the East. Whispers of Lilith, Daughter of Hatred, having returned to Sanctuary. He hoped that there was one in the Dreadlands who could answer the call. As she had so many decades ago...


**Lilith's Embrace**

Harken was 33 years of age. That meant he had lived longer than most people did in this world.

Not that the world hadn't tried to kill him since the moment he'd emerged from his mother's womb, he reflected. He'd been born into a dying people, trying to survive in a dying land. Four decades before he'd been born, the once verdant Northern Steppes had been transformed into a hellish wasteland, courtesy of the destruction of the Worldstone. In the years up to his birth, that place had become a realm of dust and ashes, cries of ghosts echoing on the winds, and the tears of the dying failing to bring life back to the soil. In the years after he'd been pulled out of his mother's womanhood, mewling like a lamb, the Dreadlands had become even more desolate. Nothing grew here. Nothing lived here except the damned, the desperate, or the depraved. In his experience, having held an axe since before he could walk, the people and creatures here tended to be more than one of those things. His tribe was desperate. They did depraved things to survive. And in so doing, damned themselves. Damned their honour. Damned them to be cursed, so that their souls might never find peace.

Outside the small fortress he found himself in now, he didn't think the people here had found peace either. Clutching his axe, he took a sniff of the frigid air. The smell of blood and ashes entered his nostrils, and further sullied his soul. Nothing grew in the Dreadlands, but there were always things to burn. Wood. Flesh. Sometimes even stone. The fortress was still standing, but had been put to the torch. And the people who'd been here put to the blade, claw, and fang. Letting out a grunt, he walked up to its shattered door. Past the bodies of the demons that had besieged this place, like something out of the Siege of Bastion's Keep half a century ago. Smaller walls and smaller demons, their bodies lying upon the snow. But, as he stepped into the courtyard, the bodies of the demons could not take his eye off the bodies of the people who'd called this place home. He took another sniff – many of the bodies had been burnt. Overcooked meat. That was what it reminded him of.

_They did not die well._

He hadn't expected to see so many people here, nor so many that were clearly not of the order that had claimed this fortress as its own. He could see the people who'd defended this place – crossbows, swords, daggers, spears – they'd fought to the last, and fought as best as they'd been able. But what surprised him were the ones who were not warriors. The very old. The very young. Looking at the bodies, he could see which of them who'd tried to flee. He could see those who'd begged for mercy before fangs tore out their throats, or blades pierced their hearts. And he could even see those who'd tried to save the young, using their own bodies as shields…before children had been dragged out from under the bodies. Likely screaming before being slaughtered in turn. Every body told a story. Every stain of blood marked the story's end. Each stain a letter in the story that this was this world's history.

He gave the bodies one last look before stepping into the keep. In a different world, he would have taken the time to bury or at least burn the bodies before moving on. But there was no world for Man but this one. He had known no other. None in his tribe were old enough to remember a time before the destruction of the sacred mountain. Before the coming of the End Times. And if, by the grace of the Ancients, there was a light at the end of this dark hole…well, the people here would never see it. Why those of the southern kingdoms would come so far north, he didn't know. And now, it didn't matter. They were dead. And the fortress the Demon Hunters' called home? That had been taken from the world as well.

_But what of their leader?_

He quickened his pace as he walked through the halls of the keep. More bodies barred his way, though this time he paid them less heed. The demons had breached the keep. The Demon Hunters had fought, and had fought well, but their efforts had been like trying to dam a river with twigs. Harken had met a few of their number over the years, and while he could call none of them friends, he could call them allies. To his relief, they spoke little, instead letting their deeds speak for them. They fought with bolt and arrow rather than proper weapons like swords or axes, but he could not argue with the results. They would meet in the Dreadlands, exchange supplies (not gold, for what use was that in these parts?), and share stories of their deeds. Drinking ale before passing out, in a bid to prevent nightmares from finding them in their slumber. He would not shed a tear for the passing of the order, but he would regret it all the same. Men and women who'd given their lives to the Hunt had been cornered like a wounded wolf, and their throats cut in a similar matter. The Order of the Demon Hunters was gone, and the world was poorer for it.

In spite of everything, he allowed a grim smile to touch his lips at the notion that somehow this world could become even more ghastly than before. But it faded all the same. The Demon Hunters were gone. That didn't necessarily mean their leader was. This fortress wasn't too large, but if he could find her, if he could enlist her aid, then that would mean…well, he wasn't sure. But his tribe's shaman had bid him to seek her out, and who was he to argue? Of course, he reflected, as he entered the keep's main hall, she could be anywhere, and not necessarily in this fortress at all. And how he'd identify her body was a question he couldn't answer.

"A visitor?"

Or, Harken reflected, his life could have got a lot simpler.

"Or a wanderer. What does it matter in this world?"

Or only slightly similar. Because he was indeed in the keep's hall, and the hall was no different from anything else. More bodies of human and demon alike. Shattered wood, some of the destruction wrought by the attackers, some by the defenders in an attempt to form barricades. But these truths barely registered in his mind. Because at the far end of the hall, seated upon a throne, a pile of demon bodies at her feet, was a woman. One whose voice was low, and gaze downward, her wrinkled hands clutched together as if in prayer. A hood covered her head, a cloak her back, and plate armour her body. Two crossbows lay either side of her, each accompanied by multiple empty quivers.

"Well?" the woman asked, still not meeting Harken's gaze. "Are you going to come closer, or stay there like a scared dog?"

Harken began striding towards the throne. He wasn't a dog. He'd killed and eaten plenty of dogs. They fought poorly, and tasted better than most of the creatures who called the Dreadlands home.

The woman didn't look up at him as he approached the throne, one that now he could see it, was just a big wooden chair, draped in fur whose origin he couldn't identify. Still clutching her hands together, whispering, she didn't seem to be aware of his presence.

The Northman cleared his throat. "My name is Harken."

The woman didn't answer.

"My tribe is of the Bear, and my blood is of the North."

The woman said nothing.

"I…" He paused, not sure what, if anything he should say about the horrors around him. "I am sorry for your loss. I have fought and drunk alongside demon hunters before. Their arrows and drink will be missed both."

The woman still remained silent, and Harken began to lose his patience. "I seek the ordermaster. Are you she?"

The woman remained silent.

"Speak, woman. I've travelled far and hard, and I won't have you waste my time."

The woman snorted. "Time," she whispered. She looked up at the warrior before her. "How much time do you think mankind has left?"

Harken managed not to recoil as he saw the woman's eyes. Both of them glowing with amber light, hiding her irises completely. He clutched his axe even tighter, and the woman must have seen him do so, because she laughed. "I knew a man like you once," she murmured. "His axe was bigger."

Harken couldn't help but ask, "and his manhood?"

The woman's smirk faded. "I never knew," she whispered. "But I weep not. Mortal pleasures have faded for me over time."

She looked ready to sink back into her well of self-pity, and it was a well that Harken wanted nothing to do with. "You haven't answered my question," he said. "Are you the ordermaster?"

The woman said nothing. She lowered her gaze and began to whisper once more, cradling her hands together.

"Answer me now," Harken demanded. "Are you the ordermaster? Are you Valla?"

The woman grunted. "I was," she whispered.

"Was?" Harken asked.

The woman chuckled. "Look around you. How can I be an ordermaster without an order to lead?"

Harken wasn't sure if he could contest that. But, as the woman wasn't saying anything, he tried to steer the conversation. "Many people here," he murmured. "Were they all of the order?"

"No."

"Well, they-"

"They came here looking for sanctuary," the woman whispered. "Men, women, old and young, saints and sinners alike. They came here, because there's no safe haven in the lands of the south." She raised her gaze again and Harken met it. "Can you understand that, Northman? The people here were so desperate that they could beg for sanctuary here, in the Dreadlands? Beyond the ruins of Westmarch, beyond the forests of Entsteig, beyond even Ivgorod itself? They would seek solace here, in this fortress, once constructed by men who served a dynasty that no longer exists?" She laughed bitterly. "Some even said they had come home. Some pointed to Bastion's Keep of old – its walls had held back an army of demons. Surely these could do the same."

Harken said nothing. Whatever had happened, clearly the walls hadn't held them back.

"The demons found us," the woman continued. "Once we were hunters, and in my weakness, in bringing sheep from outside the fence, I had summoned the wolves to our door. Attack after attack, band after band. No army, no direction, just demons seeking our end for that is their only desire. Demons without limit, more than bolt or blade could stop. Until at last…" She paused, taking a breath. "Until the doors were breached. Until screams filled the night, coming from the throats of those too young to die. And here?" She gestured around the hall. "Here, our final stand, even knowing the Hunt was over."

Harken looked at the pile of demon corpses by them, each looking like a porcupine. "I see you fought well at least?"

"Fought well?" the woman asked. "Oh yes. Fought well. I…" She trailed off, her hands shaking. "Take me," I whispered. "Take me, so that this living death may end. Take me, for fifty and twenty years I have walked this earth. Take me, take me, take me!" She leant back in the throne and gestured to the corpses. "They didn't," she said. "They kept coming. They kept failing. One spawn of Hell after another, and I killed them all. And now?" She gestured around the hall. "You tell me, Northman. What now?" She lowered her hood, and Harken could see her long black hair behind her head. Her face was old, wrinkled, but not so much as he'd expect from a woman who claimed to be seventy years old. Even her hair, while flecked with grey, was deep and lush.

"What now?" she whispered. "What are you here for, Northman? You came here seeking the ordermaster? Well, here I am." She gestured round again. "Welcome to the ordermaster who oversaw the slaughter of over four-hundred warriors and innocents."

Harken tried not to dwell on the figure. Instead, he recalled why he was here, and thus, asked, "your name is Valla?"

"Valla," the woman murmured. "Yes. That was my name. Once, long ago. Before taking titles such as huntress. Hero. Nephalem. Before thinking I could lead, rather than fight. Before I realized that slaying Terror and Death couldn't save the world from the horror that has befallen it." She spat, and Harken could see how it was laced with blood. "Yes, Valla was my name. One given by a sawyer to his firstborn daughter, who could not save her sister. Who…" She took a breath. "Whom I pray has found a place beyond the reach of Heaven and Hell alike." She returned her gaze to Harken. "Yes, I am Valla. And what of it? You have not answered mine as to why you are here."

The Northman took his time. Diplomacy was rarely needed in the Dreadlands. Demons didn't use it, and the tribes kept to themselves for the most part. Diplomacy was usually little more than exchanging weapons for food. But as a child, his mother had raised him on stories of the nephalem. Heroes of old who had beaten back the darkness. Stories he had dismissed, for the darkness was all around them, but then, the shaman had beckoned him find the one call Valla. Find the one who carried the blood of nephalem within her. She who might be humanity's saviour again. Find her, and warn her of the threat that had risen in the east.

He cleared his throat. "I am here," he said, "because the Mother of Sanctuary has returned. She, who is the Daughter of Hatred. She, who-"

"Lilith."

A chill ran down Harken's spine. The word by itself awoke something within him. Something dark, and terrible. Something ancient.

"Lilith," Valla whispered. "Call her by name, for titles have more power than names. Call Inarius's whore by her name, Northman."

He raised an eyebrow. "You know of her?"

Valla snorted. "Know of her? Of course. I spent years with wiser men than you, who gave me books to read and stories to impart. Of course I know of her. My blood comes from her, as much as the Chained Angel. I am nephalem, and she is, in a sense, my mother. And I know that she has returned to Sanctuary."

Harken stared at her. "You…know?"

Valla snorted. "You think that your shamans are the only ones who hear her? No. I…" She took a breath. "I hear her," she whispered. "In my waking moments, I hear her. In my dreams, I see her face. Lilith has returned to Sanctuary, and she would take me as her child. For indeed, what does she see mankind but a race of children, whose blood she can use for her own ends?"

Harken dared to begin to hope. "Then…you will aid us? Strike down this demon, as you did in days of old?"

Valla gave him a cold look, even as her eyes blazed like twin suns. "No," she whispered.

And his hopes evaporated like water upon fire. "No?"

"No."

"But you…" He clenched the axe. "You know of her. You hear her. You've battled demons, dead, and even angels. Why not now?"

Valla got to her feet and began to unfasten her cloak. "Because she has marked me. And I already carry enough scars." The cloak dropped, and Harken staggered back. He brought up his axe ready to throw it, and only held back because he knew it would avail him nothing. For before him was a nephalem. One who carried the blood of angel and demon, and was stronger than both.

Yet he could not take his eyes off the wings that extended from Valla's back. Wings large enough to cover him, and likely, crush him. Wings that were like those of a demon.

"I have heard tales of nephalem who have taken wings," Valla whispered, as if talking to herself more than the man before her. "Manifestations of their blood in strange ways. But these…" She ran a gloved hand down one of them, shivering as she did so. "These came in the last few years. Wings that I have hidden, letting only a cadre of my hunters know. The manifestation of my blood, mixed with the essence of death, so emerged because of her whispers. Because at night…at night, they take me. As she whispers to me. Holds me. Lilith's Embrace, I call them. And…" She sat down on the throne. "No more," she whispered. "There is nothing for me. Twice, I thought this world saved, and twice, I have been shown to be naive. Death whispers, Lilith whispers, and if these are the world's last days, I would spend them in my own manner."

Harken scowled. "You would do that while the world burns around you?"

"Look around you Northman, the world's been burning for fifty years," Valla spat. "And I…no." She leant back in the throne and gestured to the door. "Go, Northman. Travel to the lands of Scosglen if you seek your 'mother.' Evil returns to this world, and no doubt you'll find others who have come to face it. Like moths to a flame, all so willing to die."

Harken stared her. He wanted to call her a coward. Yet his hesitation in of itself damned him, he told himself. Before him was a nephalem. One of many, one of a handful, none seemed to know. But he could see her for what she was. Broken. Behind those golden eyes were tears, and beneath those wings, beneath her armour, scars. More than he could imagine.

He would hate her. Curse her. Give her the title of damned. But he would not call her a coward. But he would ask her one last question.

"What will you do here?" he whispered.

Valla gave him a look that reminded him of that of a child. One that, for a moment, let him see the person she once was. The person who she yearned to be.

"For one thing," she whispered, "I have over four-hundred bodies to bury."

And with that she fell silent. She leant forward, putting her hands together, and her head downwards. Cloak and hood removed, all left revealed to a world whose eyes were assaulted with fire and horror.

"Go, Northman," Valla whispered. "East. She waits for you…in the east…"

Harken shouldered his axe and departed, sparing no more glances for the bodies of the dead and damned.

To this place, to his tribe, he would not return.

Not without Lilith's head in his hands.

* * *

_A/N_

_Why yes, this _was _based on the Lilith's Embrace wings in _Diablo III_, how could you tell?_


End file.
